


here still.

by gunnedrobin



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Best Friends, Birthday, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Domestic Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Gotham City - Freeform, Happy Birthday Jason Todd, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Light Angst, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25939036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gunnedrobin/pseuds/gunnedrobin
Summary: In which it's Jason's birthday and you both try to come into terms with both of your feelings. Inspired by Phum Viphurit's Long Gone and Debussy's Claire de Lune.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 75





	here still.

The room is dark, save for the yellow shade of a small table lamp flickering from time to time. It’s one of those nights, when the stars, in all of their glory, are out contrasting and spread out on the dark skies. And though the scent of Gotham rain never leaves the city, you supposed that the sun was aware of what date today was, blessing everyone with a little bit of light and warmth. The night slowly turns into a purple shade as it turns to dawn, still, sleep makes no attempt to visit you.

A soft wind blows from the open window, soft white curtains blowing to follow its wake. You lounge on the couch, his old shirt, one from his teenage days, and a pair of comfortable shorts. The tips of your left toes touch a cold crystal ashtray. It’s a gift, _“a souvenir”_ he says, from a very successful trip from Manila that had him grinning from ear to ear. You remember asking him why the hell did he thought of you when he bought it, you didn’t even smoked in the first place. If anything, why would he give you a souvenir if he was the one who’ll end up using it.

_“Consider it a loan…plus, it compliments the table. You were the one who told me not to use beer cans, right?”_

He’s not wrong. If anything, as much as you’d like to admit, it gave a home-y touch to the bareness of your apartment. It’s not that you were boring, you just failed to see the point in decorating. Considering that the nature of your profession wasn’t something that needed a very fancy set-up for a home. In all honestly, the barer your quarters was, the better. Less identity, less traces, cleaner jobs. Having ton of stuff to move around was a drag enough in itself, the fact that you moved around… a lot, is of any help either.

A fond smile makes its way to your lips. _Home, huh?_ You try not to think about it too much, though it does make you wonder if he viewed this place as home, if he found solace in you as much as you did in him. On most nights, your mind settles on the fact that, technically, since you worked as a team, then maybe he does. Though on rare nights ( _such as this_ ) when your heart decides to override your logic, you take a small amount of freedom to add more meaning to it. If the saying ‘ _home is where the heart is’_ was true, then you’ll openly admit it to yourself that Jason _is_ home.

Your fingers hold a white platter, on which a store-bought cupcake rests. A small candle sticking up on top of it. Poking a hole through the red frosting. You are sure that the gesture will make him laugh… or flustered, depends on the mood he will be in when he gets back. The thought makes you frown, you haven’t thought about that.

**_If he comes here…._ **

You almost forget about the party Stephanie called in about. A small get together in his father’s home, and though the thing doesn’t start until noon, you chide yourself for forgetting about the possibility of him opting to go there straight after he does his patrol. In your defense, it’s not like the cupcake is special anyway, you could always just eat it by yourself and bring a much more _decent_ cake to the get together later.

A sigh leaves your lips, shaking your head with an amused smile, you place the platter on the table. Rising on your feet to stretch your limbs. Bare soles of your feet meeting the plush carpet as you take a deep breath, turning off the lamp before heading to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

* * *

It’s a slow night for him and he isn’t sure if he should be sad or happy about it. His butt practically fell asleep from sitting on top of his favorite gargoyle for such a long period of time. If you were here, he was sure you’d make fun of him. Tease him, tell a remark how as much as he had a great behind ~~( _you always told him that, before emphasizing that as much as it was great, his older brother’s was greater_.),~~ it’s kinda lame that it would hurt just for the sole reason of sitting too much.

The expanse of beautiful streetlights below him makes him hum. He thinks about the fact that on most times when he had all the time to himself, when he has less problematic things to worry about, ( _though by this point he doubts that and he supposes that he just grew really immune to them_ ) his mind finds its way to you.

He thinks about what joke you’d say, what comment, what remark…. The way your lips would pout or purse whenever you were thinking. Or how you’d tap a message in Morse with your feet against the sides of his boots. Sometimes, even, if you’re feeling a bit extra, you’ll burst out into a singing mess on the comms, purposely off-key and lyrics goofily and randomly placed.

_“If I sing the lyrics wrong, then it’s not plagiarism…it’s my own rendition…” He remembers you telling him that with a very proud smile on your face, like you just said the most genius thing in the world._

_“No, it’s murder.” He retorts, his smile almost as wide as yours hidden by his helmet._

Jason checks the time before getting up. He makes his way home, though he does make a stop before he does. Another image he’s sure you’ll laugh about, but the thought of what it could mean to you makes the embarrassment fall back. He shakes the idea of keeping it a secret, the bag in his hand is a dead giveaway and the sight of it alone would probably send you rolling on the floor laughing. That is though, if you were still awake.

If not, then he’s a lucky man.

* * *

The first thing he notices is how you carelessly left the window and the lamp open before it turns off. You were awake. He makes a jump, landing perfectly and expertly on the fire exit outside your window. His form catches your eye and you almost spit out the water in your mouth. He makes his way inside through the window and you don’t miss the plastic bag in his hands.

“Did you seriously just went inside a convenience store dressed in that? To get chips and beer?” is the first thing you say when you manage to regain your breath. He takes off his boots carelessly, each pair flying and landing on opposite directions. He does that just for the hell of it, he was clean and organized by nature, though the thought of him doing it on purpose always got you seething, and he lives for it.

“Yeah, so? I’m cool that way.” He replies, taking off his helmet and jacket before haphazardly taking a seat on the couch. Head leaning back as he massages the lids of his eyes with his now bare fingers.

You sit down next to him, lighting up the candle with the metal lighter he had on his belt that you expertly pickpocketed just now. The sound of metal clinking makes him smirk and chuckle before he sits properly, eyes now opened and surprised by the pastry you held in front of his face.

“Happy Birthday, Jay!” you tell him, the candle light, it illuminates both of your faces; it being the only thing that illuminates the dark room.

It finally sinks in and he snorts in amusement. Though the act does make his heart restless, he’s in this point of his life where he does admit that he developed certain tendencies, that including forgetting some things his mind deemed trivial.

It’s not that his birth was trivial per se, it’s just that he had a hard time remembering the date alone without bringing up the memories of it being etched in stone next to another set of date of when he supposedly…. _left._ But the thought of someone remembering things for him with the rawest form of sincerity does make him smile.

The sky grows lighter by the moment that you can finally make out his face. You can see the conflict in his eyes and it makes you think that maybe this was a wrong idea. But before you can scold yourself for it, his lips turn to make soft smile and every doubt in that brain of yours goes away as he meets your eyes.

_I’m grateful._ He tries to wordlessly tell you. He isn’t sure if you’d be able to hear it, though something assures him that you do. Because in all the years of being in each other’s company, he observes that most exchange of thoughts that happens between the two of you doesn’t involve words or even touches. With just one look, you know. And he to you.

He blows the candle.

* * *

There was a particular scent that the mixture of tobacco, sweat, leather, smoke, and when you focus a little bit harder, a faint stench of rain that reminded you of him.

You couldn’t blame yourself really, because at this point, you thought, that you spent a fair amount of time burying your nose in his chest, between the creases of two defined pectorals that caged his heart that you oh so wanted to hear so much.

Jason reminded you of a hurricane that you willingly ran into. As if the storm surge itself drowned you and you wanted nothing more than to submerge yourself in it until you reach the ocean floor.

There was something in the way that his eyes lit up whenever you talked about Orwell or Hemingway or Vern. The scrunch of his nose in disgust whenever you say that he looked cute, because of all things, he says, _he is not cute_. But he is. To you he is.

The ways his brows, thick and dark, would quirk whenever he tries to make a point, back when you were kids, that stealing the bread that you two shared at the moment was actually a _good deed_ and that you should be grateful.

_You are grateful, for the bread, but to be honest, you were most thankful for him._

You always wondered how, as much as how fucked up Gotham was, you managed to find something so good. So magical.

It's been years since the two of you were nothing but street kids in a damned city, years past him coming back from the dead, him rampaging with hate throughout the city, and now you can't help but stare at his laughing figure as he pulls out the candle of the pastry, trying to suck off the frosting that stuck on it before peeling the paper of the bread and taking a bite off of it, cheeks puffed as he chewed earnestly. He grins at you, and you shake your head in amusement. Taking the liberty to take out the chips and two cans of beer from the plastic bag beside him.

You open a can before handing it to him. He takes it from you as you helped yourself. Mouth still full, Jason raises his can in your direction and you tap yours against his in a toast before taking a gulp. He makes an exaggerated moan.

“That sip alone touched my soul….” He jokes.

“Or lack thereof….” You retort.

“Okay, harsh….but true.” He laughs and you can’t help but stare.

_You remember warm hands running through your arms as an attempt to alleviate the cold from the harsh Gotham rain. You remember muscled torsos, bloodied, laying in your bed as you tried you best to patch him back up in god-knows-what hour, and his voice thanking you and asking you to stay for a while when you make attempt to head to the couch and sleep._

_Warm Sunday mornings, when he had nothing scheduled, no flights headed for countries on the other side of the world, where you'd smell his cooking wafting in your apartment even though you were sure you locked the door before you slept. And him saying he went straight to your apartment because he didn’t want to go home to his dad's_.

_You remember secrets shared between laughs, between slow patrol nights, and even between fights and banters. You think about the little things you have managed to pick up along the way with and from each other. The small things and parts of yourselves that lead you to become something this big._

_He always had this comical face of disgust he makes whenever he was forced to attend galas that immediately dissipated whenever he reached the table where his family sat, or of mock whenever he sees his older brother sashaying with the ladies on the dance floor, or his dad when he expertly pretended that small talks amongst Gotham’s finest interested him. Most of the times, the two of you opted to stay seated within your table with his two younger brothers, listening to their bickering, even joining from time to time._

_It was times like these when the mirth and the youth in his eyes came out, he may not admit it, but you knew that there was joy in them. He may not admit it, but sometimes you think that in the brief moments where your eyes meet, where words are not exchanged but meanings are, he told you he was happy to be here._

_More often than not though, you'd catch him, silently gliding behind the crowd, sneaking quietly to light a stick outside the porch, in the opposite wing of the manor, away from people._

_"One of these days I'm sure you're going to regret packing those things in that belt of yours." you tell him as you lean against the stone railing with your elbows, your back facing the well-trimmed bushes Alfred spent so many hours perfecting. You hand him one of the two glasses of whisky you were carrying. You could still see the outline of the liveliness within the ball room from where you stood, the yellow lights faintly casting shade on Jason’s dark suit._

_"And one of these days, you're going to stop telling me about it." he chuckles, taking the glass and placing it on the stone railing._

_A smirk forms on your lips at his response, the night air caresses the exposed parts of your skin and you dare not rub them warm. You could still hear the slow jazz from inside albeit a bit muted. Your head moves a little bit from left to right, swaying a little in time with the saxophone and the piano keys._

_“…or not… I like hearing you.” He admits out loud._

* * *

Silence. He scoots closer to you and rests his head against your shoulder, it takes you a minute before you realize that he’s humming, his breath fanning against the exposed skin of your arm, fingers tapping against the skin of your palm as if they tried to trace piano notes. Its magic, you think, how the softness of his humming makes the deepness of his voice sound so delicate, and you swear this is the best version of Clair de Lune you’ll ever hear…and you doubt you’ll ever hear it again without thinking of him now.

He takes it slow, note by note, and your heart continues to beat heavily as you inhale his scent. You hoped that there was some kind of way you could capture this moment and put it in a bottle, or something to make it tangible even after this moment passes, before the real world bursts the bubble you two are in, before daylight and the questions of tomorrow and the myriad of responsibilities and duties pops it to an end.

You wish that in a way, things could be different, maybe in another place, in another time, in another lifetime, and in another universe, there must be one in which you both are blessed enough to be together still, and would spend the rest of your days normally like the people you swore to protect and in each other’s arms. 

“You want to dance?” he asks, barely a whisper as his left pinky finger hooks your right.

“I’d love to.”

He stands up, offering his hand with a theatrical bow. You scoff at the gesture, though you made sure to reply with an equally theatrical bow as you take his hand. He pulls you into the spacious part of the living room, placing one hand on your lower back and the other hand on yours. And here you were again, head against his chest, ears hearing the steady beat of his heart. Both of you swaying slow in time, and in peaceful silence. The sound of traffic softy increases as the early hours of the morning begins to come in, yet the both of you pay no mind.

"You look handsome tonight, Jay." Your words almost muffled.

"Princess, I'm always handsome."

You want to tell him that, yes, he always has been. Inside and out. You want to tell him that you see stars in his eyes and the universe in his mouth. That it is as if he brought summer with him because whenever you're with him you feel nothing but warmth, and peace, and everything in between. As funny as it sounds, and as ironic as it seems, you feel safest with him, even though that’s the exact opposite of what it means to fight with him side by side. Yet that doesn’t stop you from thinking that the world could end and it wouldn’t really matter to you as long as you’re by his side.

"What are you thinking about, doll?" he asks.

“Nothing… and everything…” 

“S’way past 2 a.m. for you to be that philosophical, don’t you think?” you know him too well to get past the vexing in his voice to know that he, as a matter of fact, thinks the same.

“Well, you’re not wrong.”

It takes him a moment of hesitation before he speaks again. “Do you believe in birthday wishes?”

You give it some thought before you nod your head with pursed lips, eyes still closed as you bask in his warmth.

“I think so. I wish for the same thing every year, and it comes true in a way...” you giggle. “Why do you ask?”

You feel him smile, his chin resting snugly against the top of your head, he makes no move to stop your dance. “Me too. What do you wish for?” His voice oozes of pure curiosity.

“Uhhh, no. I’m not telling you.”

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” His statement makes your smile grow wider, and for a moment you feel like you are taken back to the younger years, just two street kids trying to make a living and survive the harsh Gotham streets, with nothing but each other and the iron will to get out of Crime Alley one day.

“Isn’t that bad luck, Jay?”

“You tellin’ me after all these years, all the shit we’ve been through. You still believe in luck?”

**_Touché._ **

You pry yourself away from his chest to look up to him, a small and delicate smile on your lips as you try to search his eyes. Blue orbs meet yours, his brows arched in intrigue as he waits for you to speak, grin on his lips.

“To be honest…” you start. “Every birthday…all I wish is….to get to spend another year with you.”

The words make him shudder, his hold tightening against yours. He tries hard not to let the tears fall, they say tears of joy are hard to hold back, and he agrees. The saltiness and blur in his eyes are enough proof of that. He sucks his lips in, trying to lick the dryness out of them as he does. Maybe he _did_ do something right in this life. Even if he had to take a short break in between. Maybe that’s the collateral beauty of having to live again, even if it’s harder and more complicated than the way he left it, there is something good in it, he supposes; more flavors to taste, more music to hear, more art to see and read… and _more moments with you._

He finds himself at lost for words, and he hopes him leaning down to capture yours is enough answer, enough praise, enough….just enough….just for you…

**_We’re here. We’re here. Together. Still._ **

“That’s funny…..” he tries to speak with his eyes closed, his voice still shaky yet you find it to be the most endearing thing you’ll ever see or hear. Because Jason is all you ever wished for, and he’s here.

He opens his eyes, and you swear for a moment, you forget to breathe.

“…because I wish for the same thing _every. single. year.”_

“Well in that case…” you take his face in your hands. He puts his on them, he returns your soft smile. Lips delicately stretched from palm to palm.

**_“….Happy Birthday, Jason.”_ **

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JASON!!!!


End file.
